


Takeaway

by crystalsoulslayer



Category: In the Loop (2009), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, First Time, M/M, Office Sex, malcolm is a super sub but jamie has missed his opportunity to tie him up, the only thing heavier than the sarcasm is the sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1417980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsoulslayer/pseuds/crystalsoulslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie was so boggled by this statement that he just sat there, gawping, for a full thirty seconds, while Malcolm’s expression became progressively more confused. Eventually, he looked as though he’d just witnessed someone trying to do something inappropriate involving a pool noodle and insufficient quantities of anal lubricant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Takeaway

“I’m not going to.”

“You are.”

“Not.”

“ _So_ are. You’re going to. It’s inevitable. Go on. Plant one on me. Go on.”

“I’m not going to kiss you.”

“Yes, you are. Go on, Malc. Right here. Right on the cheek. I won’t tell, I promise.”

“I’m not going to kiss you on the fucking cheek. I’m not doing it.”

“You are. Because you’re so grateful for everything I do. It’s going to happen eventually, just… go on. Go on.”

“I’m not fucking kissing you, you fucking pervert. And if I were going to kiss you, which I am _not_ , it would not be on your fucking cheek. It would be full-mouthed and joyful, with tongue, and rainbows, and fucking fireworks. The very earth would quake beneath your tiny little pygmy feet.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. You’d be ruined.”

“Ruined?”

“For anyone else. Men, women, fucking sexy fuckin’ aliens. A succubus could visit you in the night, a creature no earthly man can resist, and you would say, ‘no, ma’am, you are not Malcolm Tucker, fuck off.’ She’d find that very offensive. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for you hurting her feelings.”

“Oh, big words. But you’re not going to back them up, are you?”

Malcolm’s little smirk in response was positively coquettish. “You’d like that, eh, Jamie? Hot for the boss, are we?”

“That’s not going to work, Malcolm, since you’re clearly too chickenshit to put up or shut up.”

“Really.”

“Really, _really_.”

“Shut the fuck up, Shrek,” Malcolm said, and his hands planted themselves on either side of Jamie’s face, and tilted his head back, and then Malcolm’s lips were hot and hungry and slick and sweet and firm and demanding and giving and taking, all at once, and that was before he even introduced his tongue. The kiss simultaneously lasted forever and no time at all. Every slip and thrust of Malcolm’s curry-spiced tongue, every shift of Malcolm’s long, powerful fingers in Jamie’s hair, was a split second and an eternity, and Jamie couldn’t understand how time didn’t just _stop_ , how the universe could allow that kind of energy to rampage unchecked.

And then, suddenly, it was over.

And Jamie couldn’t abide that, and he couldn’t give any ground, so he grinned and taunted, “You can do better than that.”

And Malcolm did.

Every sexual experience Jamie had ever had, up to this point, was less satisfying than this fucking kiss, even taken together. This kiss was the fucking United States military budget. You could take the combined budgets of the next twelve fucking countries’ kisses, and they would not approach this kiss. This kiss built billion-dollar jets every moment, every movement, every soft suck and delicate nip and demanding nibble was the _aircraft carrier_ of kisses.

Jamie went weak at the knees. Malcolm did not stop kissing him.

Malcolm’s hands went to Jamie’s waist, and he shoved him back, against the desk. A thump and a glassy rolling sound, and the _very_ expensive bottle of Scotch they’d just finished off hit the floor with a dull and heavy resonance. It didn’t break. Jamie, though, thought he might. If Malcolm stopped. If this stopped. This must never, ever stop, because the pressure of Malcolm’s lips on his was all that held him together in this moment, and if that pressure were lost, he’d burst, like a helium balloon at the edge of space.

And Malcolm stopped.

“Well?”

“Nope, not convinced,” Jamie said, breathlessly, needy, hungry.

“You contrary little shit,” Malcolm replied, but not angrily, not furious as he should have been. His breath was soft on Jamie’s face, even when he quirked a smile and added, “Emphasis on _little_.”

“I am _not_ that short, Malcolm fucking Sasquatch fucking Bigfoot Yeti fucking twatface Tucker, _you_ are unnatural. You’re an abomination.”

“Oh, my tiny little minion. I wasn’t referring to your height.”

Jamie actually tried to punch him. Malcolm ducked and then laughed and then stayed down low, and looked up at Jamie with blown pupils in blue-gray eyes and, gently, so gently, brushed his lips against the peak of the tent in Jamie’s trousers.

Jamie couldn’t breathe.

“You—You fucking—you—“

Malcolm’s hands ran slowly up the insides of Jamie’s thighs and settled on his waist, pinning him against the desk, and then he did it again. So gentle, so careful. Jamie could barely even feel it. But he could feel it, could feel the exquisite hints of pressure and Malcolm’s hot breaths panting through humid fabric, and it wasn’t enough, could never be enough. Jamie’s hands found themselves on the back of Malcolm’s head, and his hips thrust forward of their own accord, and before he knew how it had happened, Jamie was grinding his clothed erection against Malcolm’s mouth, and Malcolm was letting him. _Malcolm was letting him_. Angry Malcolm. Juggernaut Malcolm. Malcolm F. Tucker, his boss, _his boss_ , his fucking unstoppable furious Dangerously Straight Malcolm Tucker boss, head of press for the entire fucking British government, was dragging his thin and flushed lips over the shallowly sculpted shape of Jamie’s hard-on.

And Christ, if wasn’t the most beautiful fucking thing Jamie’d ever seen.

Jamie yanked Malcolm’s head away by the hair so he could have a think without the interference of friction, and looked around wildly for some kind of explanation as to how this could have happened. “Something wrong?” Malcolm actually sounded a little concerned. Jamie ignored him, casting his eyes over the empty takeaway containers and the toppled shot glasses and the scattered papers on Malcolm’s desk. “Jamie? Are you okay?”

“Takeaway,” Jamie said.

“…What?”

“It’s takeaway. Fucking memos and takeaway. We were on memos and takeaway and what the _fuck_ is this, Malcolm?”

“I believe scientists usually refer to it as ‘sexual attraction.’ But I’m not an expert, so perhaps we should call the nearest university and have them send over some arsehole with calipers and safety glasses. And one of those calculators you can put fucking Tetris on. Fucking love those things.”

Malcolm was grinning at his little joke, but Jamie just stared at him. He rolled his eyes and sighed.

“I like you. You seem to like me. I thought it would be fun if we exchanged casual sexual favors on a regular basis.”

“Takeaway,” Jamie said again. “We were eating takeaway, and now you’re trying to—“

“—eat something else, yes. Is it the boss-thing?”

“No, I don’t—I mean, fuck’s _sake_ , Malcolm!”

Malcolm frowned and straightened up. “Look, if you don’t want to, it’s okay. I’m not going to fire you, or anything, I’m not a sociopath.”

Jamie was so boggled by this statement that he just sat there, gawping, for a full thirty seconds, while Malcolm’s expression became progressively more confused. Eventually, he looked as though he’d just witnessed someone trying to do something inappropriate involving a pool noodle and insufficient quantities of anal lubricant.

“Of course I want to, you fucking insufferable Sasquatch twat,” Jamie said, finally. “Of course I want to. Do you think, do you seriously think, I could look at you, and work next to you, fucking day after day after day, and be so close to you I can smell that godawful fucking _caustic_ aftershave, finding you so fucking unbearable in _the best possible way_ that I can never let go of the shit we put up with here, because when I go home, all I can think about is the way you look when you grin at me after you finish screaming at some fucking incompetent shite-stained cumrag excuse for an MP.” Jamie was dimly aware that he sort of lost the plot of the sentence at some point. He didn’t particularly care. “And now you’re—now? _Now_? When I was—you— _Now_ you’re going to try to give me a blowjob in your fucking office because of some fucking _takeaway_?”

“Don’t be such a fuckwit, of course it wasn’t the takeaway. Wasn’t the Scotch, either. Well. Maybe a little.”

“What was it, then?”

Malcolm tilted his head (adorably) and nibbled on his lower lip a little bit. Jamie flushed from his toes to the roots of his hair. He wasn’t sure how he had enough blood in his body to make that possible, particularly considering he was still hard.

“Difficult to answer. I’m trying to decide if it’s more because you’re fucking gorgeous, or fucking hilarious, or fucking smart. Which would you most like to hear?”

It was Jamie’s turn to act, Jamie’s turn to pull Malcolm down for a vicious, possessive kiss. The kind with sucking and biting hard and licking away the blood you’ve just drawn. _And Malcolm let him._

Jamie sat back down on the desk, pulling Malcolm down with him, reaching down to his belt with the hand that wasn’t in Malcolm’s hair. But Malcolm’s hands were already there, already had his belt open. It was a matter of mere seconds before Malcolm was pulling away from the never-ending kiss and bringing his head down, kneeling on the floor, kneeling in front of Jamie, working Jamie’s foreskin up and down with one hand, his other white-knuckled over Jamie’s knee.

And he just looked at it for a moment, licking his lips, and Jamie was sure that he was going to change his mind, or pull away laughing and whip out his mobile to take a picture, but he didn’t.

He looked up at Jamie’s face, and he smiled, and then he looked back at Jamie’s cock, and then he opened his mouth wide and _swallowed_ him.

It was like a magic trick. One moment, Jamie was looking at seven inches of himself protruding insistently from his open trousers. And then he was looking at the top of Malcolm’s head.

Malcolm held himself there for what seemed like a long time, eyes closed, just feeling it. Jamie had never seen him so still. It was slightly unnerving, even if Malcolm’s throat—that was _Malcolm’s_ throat, those muscles twitching and grasping at his erection—and—Jesus. “Malcolm. Christ. Don’t you need to breathe?”

Malcolm pulled himself off, noiselessly, and took a single, deep breath. Then he licked. Malcolm’s mouth opened and his tongue flicked out and he ran it, broad and wide, from the root to the tip of Jamie’s now-wet cock. “ _You_ are supposed to fuck me, moron,” Malcolm said, and swallowed him again, and waited.

Tentatively, Jamie thrust shallowly into Malcolm’s mouth.

Malcolm liked it.

Jamie knew because he moaned softly and bobbed his head a few times when Jamie didn’t follow through with further thrusts. Jamie lost it, and gave in, shifting forward on the desk and tilting his hips forward and _fucking_ him. And Malcolm _really_ liked that, so Jamie did it a little harder, and harder, and harder still, and the only sounds in the office were wet and breathy and Malcolm’s nigh-inaudible whimpers of pleasure and soft clinking as the shot glasses bumped into each other on the shaking desk. Malcolm shuffled closer on his knees, wanting Jamie deeper, twining his arms around Jamie’s thighs, meeting each thrust with a gentle nod of his head.

“Malcolm… gonna…”

Malcolm hummed happily, and Jamie’s hands tangled in his hair, and Jamie came in Malcolm’s throat. Malcolm stayed put for a moment, then pulled off again. He coughed once, twice, and then swallowed repeatedly, with a bizarrely contented-looking little grin. “Good?” he asked.

“Fucking amaze— _astonishing,_ how the fuck do you—I mean, where did you learn to do that?”

“I practiced,” Malcolm said simply. His voice was a little hoarse. Jamie realized with a start that it had been hoarse before, and that this was not necessarily from shouting.

“Oh? Uhm, how… many…?”

“Relax. I didn’t say I practiced on real people. I mean, I have a little bit, but I’ve only had… two boyfriends.”

“Three,” Jamie said, with a smile.

And Malcolm smiled back.

“Three?”

“Your other two, whoever the fuck they might be, and me,” Jamie answered. “Three.”

Malcolm paused for a moment, and then, like he couldn’t help it, he said sarcastically, “Yes, I can do maths.”

“I’m not going to help you come if you’re going to be a twat.”

Malcolm _giggled_. Jamie was alarmed.

 

There were other memorable moments in their relationship.

There would be a night, in a five-star hotel, that Malcolm would straddle Jamie, and sink down, down, down, eyes closed, his mouth slack with pleasure and his neck long and his body arching, the first time Jamie had ever been allowed to have someone in the arse, and when he came unexpectedly before Malcolm did, Malcolm wasn’t angry or mocking, just begged Jamie to finger him, because he needed it, _Jamie, please, your fingers, please, need_ something _of yours inside me_ , and he had taken fucking _four_ of Jamie’s fingers and asked for more, but Jamie couldn’t do it because he was scared of hurting him.

The third or fourth time Jamie went to Malcolm’s place, Malcolm would open a (very large and very full) box of toys, and show him a pair of dildos with suction cups at the base; he would stick one to the wall of the shower, and the other to the floor, and set the water running, and Jamie would watch as Malcolm put on a show for him, hands-and-knees, sucking the one on the floor while fucking himself on the other; and then Jamie had him afterward, so soft and open inside, hair still damp, and so tired that all he could do was whimper his pleasure into Jamie’s greedy mouth.

And there were other things, too, not sexual.

The time Malcolm fell asleep with his head in Jamie’s lap during a long ride in an empty train carriage, for instance. Or when Jamie woke up to find that Malcolm was still awake, and couldn’t sleep, and had just been lying there, next to him, for the whole night, unwilling to get up or do something on his phone in case he woke Jamie up.

And there was that evening when Malcolm wouldn’t let Jamie go, wouldn’t let him get off the couch, wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, just squeezed him and shook and tried not to cry and failed, and it wasn’t until months later and he was really drunk and Jamie asked that he told Jamie, ashamed, that it was because something on the TV reminded Malcolm of the way his father used to treat him.

All of which was important, and very good, and which broke Jamie’s heart every time he thought about it after their misunderstanding.

But Jamie would never forget the moment that Malcolm Tucker leaned in close and whispered in his ear that he had come in his trousers without being touched the moment his lips brushed against Jamie’s trousers, and he wanted to suck him off anyway just to see what he looked like after he came.


End file.
